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“I want them to wear different colour suits. The footmen are red and gold. I want the page boys to be blue and gold. It will be most charming.” She waved her lorgnette. “That is all.”

After she left the room, Anna and Hetty stared at each other, somewhat at a loss.

“How exciting, you get to be in the salon with the guests!” The other maids surrounded them, chattering with excitement.

“A shame I am so full-bosomed, otherwise I would have made a perfect page boy myself,” Mary sighed.

Mrs Billings clapped her hands. “Back to work, back to work, time is of the essence. Anna and Hetty, to me. You must try on the satin suits. I vow, Mrs Marchmont has the most outlandish ideas. But she might be right in that you two will look most charming as page boys.”

Anna did indeed look dapper as a page boy. Her dark hair was hidden under a white wig. She wore stockings and buckled shoes, a frilled shirt and a dark blue satin suit with golden buttons.

“What exactly are we to do, though?” Anna asked Hetty, who made a taller and slimmer, but equally pretty page boy.

“We are to carry trays of champagne and petit fours and dance attendance on the special guests Mrs Marchmont assigns us to.”

“Do you know who these might be?”

“My guess is that it’s the higher lords and ladies.” Hetty shrugged. “She has yet to reveal who they are.”

Anna braced herself for a difficult evening. She did not enjoy dancing attendance on guests, for they could be difficult. One was never allowed to talk back, and it was easy to make mistakes. Male guests could be unpleasant, especially if one encountered them alone in the corridor. In that sense, Anna was relieved she was wearing the disguise of a page boy. With some luck, no one would realise she was a woman.

Mrs Marchmont summoned them and cast a critical eye over them.

“You will do,” she finally said. “Make sure to be particularly attentive to the Dowager Duchess of Witherby and the Marchioness of Lindsey. You must anticipate their every wish. I want no complaints afterwards, do you hear? Both their sons are most eligible bachelors, and their mothers must be pleased, no, impressed with how they are treated.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hetty and Anna replied in unison, exchanging glances after Mrs Marchmont had left.

“It’s bound to be a challenging evening,” Hetty whispered. “The Dowager Duchess is an eccentric and difficult to please. And the Marchioness of Lindsey is known for her temper tantrums. At a ball last week, she is said to have poured the contents of her teacup over a poor footman because it wasn’t sweet enough. Anna, I am nervous.”

“So am I, Hetty. So am I,” Anna muttered.

Chapter 21

The evening had started well enough.

The entire house was glittering and sparkling, and for once, Anna was allowed to be so close to the guests she could almost touch them. As they arrived, her job was to help take their coats, hats, and shawls to the cloakroom, handing each guest an ivory token that matched the hook where their garment was placed. It was somewhat of a challenge, for she had to remember the number of each hook, carry the garments to the cloakroom, and bring the matching token back to the right guest. But there were no mishaps, and she and Hetty worked swiftly alongside the other footmen. It was a highly efficient, well-organised system, one that ran smoothly as long as everyone did their part. Soon, Anna even began to enjoy herself, learning the names and faces of the aristocracy as they arrived.

As another carriage rolled up the drive, the head footman instructed, “Take the coat of this last guest, then go help carry refreshments into the salon where the guests are gathering. Most have arrived, so Fred and Jack will handle the cloakroom from here.” He turned to the tall gentleman entering the foyer, bowed, and said, “Good evening, my lord.”

The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with unruly black hair and striking sage green eyes. He was dressed in impeccable attire: a dark blue tailcoat, beige pantaloons, and a neatly tied cravat. He was clean-shaven, revealing a firm, square jaw with a dimple square in its midst. His eyes travelled over the crowd, as if looking for someone.

Anna froze, choking back a gasp, and quickly ducked behind the massive urn that stood by the entrance. Mon Dieu! St John!

“The coat,” the footman hissed.

She shook her head in panic.

The footman scowled, then stepped up himself to take St John’s cloak. Anna pressed herself against the wall, then when she saw him move away to climb the stairs, she pressed a trembling hand against her wildly racing heart.

There was no doubt; it was him. He was now talking to Mr Marchmont, who seemed delighted to see him.

“It is an honour, my lord,” Marchmont said, extending a hand, shaking it with vigorous enthusiasm. “I did not think you would come.”

“Nor did I,” St John replied, a rare smile flickering across his face as he gripped the man’s hand. “I had some business in town and thought I should pay a visit. The invitation came at an opportune moment. How’s your leg?”

Marchmont patted his right leg. “Sensitive when the weather’s bad, but otherwise working as it should. I owe it all to you that I still have it, and that it’s more or less functional. Unimaginable what could have happened if I’d let some other military surgeon at me; he’d have sawn it off for sure. Come, let us go inside and raise a glass to our shared past in the Peninsula. It is uncommonly good to see you.” He clapped a hand on his shoulder and both men turned to enter the salon together.

Anna hesitated, lingering in the background, but the head footman scowled down at her.